You don't need my songs; You see through my Sunday best
You don't need my works to compliment Your righteousness
You don't need my words; my poetry does not impress You, God
You don't my faith; You still move despite my doubt
You don't need my voice; the rocks and trees are crying out
You don't need my love; that's not what Your death's all about, O God

It's hard to face this
But when I see Your face, I see what grace is
It's such a glorious disgrace
That You would condescend to love me
You would condescend to love me
When You're the Author of all the good I've ever done
And all I offer is borrowed breath from borrowed lungs
But You still condescend to love me
You still condescend to love me

Without your breath in my lungs
Without Your words on my tongue
Without Your voice speaking all things
Without Your blood in my heart
Without Your cross as my mark
Without Your love in the offering

Without Your breath in my lungs
Without Your words on my tongue
Without Your voice I could not sing
Without Your blood in my heart
Without Your cross as my mark
Without Your love, I am nothing